


like flying

by distira



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Classical Music, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:03:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distira/pseuds/distira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I only have skates, though," Semyon says, and his stomach sinks abruptly.  "I don't have pads or anything, even a stick-" and he feels, ridiculously, like he might choke up at the thought of not being able to play hockey because of something stupid like not having pads.  </p><p>"Sid will find some for you," Sasha says dismissively.  "He's crazy, but he's also some big-shot lawyer and has a billion dollars and loves nothing but hockey so don't worry."  </p><p> </p><p>OR: Varly, classical pianist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like flying

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pond Ice and the In Between](https://archiveofourown.org/works/773278) by [luxover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover). 



> first of all thank you to [luxover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/profile) for letting me play in her sandbox and write this! and also for writing the fic that inspired this in the first place. also huge thanks are in order to [fleetingly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fleetingly) for beta'ing this! 
> 
> general note, i am new to hockey and know nothing/i haven't written fic for a year but somehow this happened anyway. they say write what you know, and what i know is being a professional musician who also plays sports, so that part was convenient. any actual hockey knowledge is because lux is a good teacher.

When Semyon is eight, his parents tell him he can only play hockey for the same number of hours per week he practices piano. 

"How many hours do you spend playing hockey?" His mother asks him. They're sitting at dinner. Semyon hasn't touched the piano in two days. He pushes the potatoes on his plate around until they're in a neat little circle. 

"There are only scrimmages three times a week," he says. "So I guess six or nine hours?" 

"And how many hours do you spend playing piano?" His mother continues. 

Their piano is an upright, made of cherry wood. It's not the nicest piano in the world – certainly not nice like the Bösendorfer grand piano that he heard Van Cliburn play on three years ago, the concert that made him ask for piano lessons – but it does the trick, and it was still pretty expensive. Semyon always feels a little guilty when days go by and he doesn't practice, but he's eight and he has friends and school and hockey and sometimes he doesn't remember that he hasn't practiced until he's already tucked into bed. 

"Not as much," he says. His mother raises her eyebrows, waiting for more. "Maybe only five hours a week." 

"You spend more time on hockey then on piano, but piano is where your career will be," his mother tells him. "So from now on, if you practice piano for two hours every day, you can play hockey for two hours. If you only practice piano for a half an hour, you can only play hockey for a half an hour." 

The next morning, Semyon practices for two hours, until he has the two-part invention he's working on memorized and he can play it through smoothly. When he closes the lid of the piano and stretches out his arms, his mother is standing in the doorway, smiling. 

"That was beautiful, Senya," she says. "Your teacher will be so happy to hear it this week." 

He will be, but that's not why Semyon is happy. He's happy because he gets to stay at hockey for a whole two hours today. 

 

It isn't that Semyon doesn't love playing the piano. He does. And it isn't that he loves playing hockey more, either. It's just- it's different. It doesn't take long, after he starts practicing for a few hours every day – sometimes more than the two hours he needs in order to go to hockey – for his teacher to realize that he's good. Better than good. By the time Semyon is eleven, he's passed auditions for conservatory in Moscow and he's planning on attending next year. 

And he loves it, he really does. But he's eleven and sometimes he loses track of time while he plays and it's great, but he also gets lonely a lot, sitting by himself all day. Hockey is with his friends, and it's fast and outside and even though his parents and his teachers decided he could only be a goaltender because he would get extra protection for his hands, it's still an entirely different feeling to glide around the ice. 

 

The first year Semyon is in Moscow, he can't play in the hockey league because he's too young. He still skates, but it's not the same, and so he plays the piano instead. He plays darker music. He's finally mature enough for it, his teachers say, but he's not sure if maturity is really why he enjoys pounding out the huge chords at the opening of the Tchaikovsky concerto. 

He's playing well, though, really well, and he gets invited to perform with the Moscow Radio Symphony and his parents come to Moscow to get him his first tuxedo. 

When he steps on stage for his debut, he's wearing shiny, new black dress shoes, but he gets the same swooping feeling in his stomach that he does when he takes his first fast lap around the ice. It stays with him as he sits down and adjusts the bench, listens to the orchestra play the first minute or so of music before he comes in, and it gets better, starts to feel like when he goes down and makes a save at point-blank range. 

Semyon is bone tired after, as he takes his bows, and he thinks, if it feels like this – feels like hockey – all the time, then he could do this for a living. 

 

Semyon moves to the United States when he's twenty. His manager and his parents think it will be good for his career to build up an American reputation, since most of the money in recording is in the States these days. He brings his skates and goes to the local rink a few times a week at the very least, but it's not the same as when he was playing games every few nights. 

He wonders sometimes what it would've been like if there was a professional hockey league, if he still would've chosen piano. 

One of his teachers asks him what he loves about hockey. 

"It feels like flying," Semyon answers instantly. "Skating. And making saves, happens so fast you can't think – I like that." 

"And the fighting?" His teacher asks. 

Semyon laughs. "I like that, too." He doesn't – didn't – get in a lot of fights, never really had much opportunity to as a goalie, but he likes the adrenaline, sometimes even the violence. He doesn't mind getting hit. If he did, he would've played a different sport. 

His teacher nods like it makes sense. "You will play Rachmaninoff next," he says. 

"Because I'm Russian?" Semyon laughs. 

"No," his teacher says, serious, so Semyon composes his face. "Because you'll love it like you love hockey." 

 

Semyon's been practicing Rachmaninoff for two weeks when he meets Sasha. 

He's at the rink on a Saturday afternoon during free skate and he's weaving in and out of little kids who are trying to figure out toe picks. There's Muzak playing from the speakers but there's Rachmaninoff playing in Semyon's head and for a few laps, he tries to skate in time with the music in his head. He's going faster than he realized, because when someone shouts "Hey!" in his direction in Russian and when he tries to stop short, he nearly skids into the glass. 

"Hello?" He asks. 

There's a tall guy with brown hair skating towards him. He stops considerably more gracefully than Semyon had and grins. He's missing a front tooth. 

"Hockey skates," the guy says, pointing at Semyon's feet. "You play?" 

Semyon tilts his head and shrugs a little. "I used to, yeah," he said. "Before I moved here." 

"In Russia, I know," the guy says. "You're the pianist, yeah?" 

"Um," Semyon says. "Yes? How do you know that?" 

The guy laughs. "There aren't many hockey playing concert pianists, even in Russia," and he says it like Semyon is stupid but at the same time, it's not mean. "There's a league here, if you want to play. We're looking for guys. You're fast, you look like you kind of know what you're doing." 

"I'm a goalie," Semyon says, and the guy looks like Christmas came early. 

"Good, you can shut Flower the fuck up about being the best goalie we have," the guy says. 

"You're assuming I'm good," Semyon says, and the guy laughs. 

"You're Russian, which is better than French-Canadian automatically," he points out. "I'm Sasha." 

"Semyon," Semyon says, and he feels like he should offer his hand for a handshake but Sasha claps him on the shoulder instead. "I only have skates, though," Semyon says, and his stomach sinks abruptly. "I don't have pads or anything, even a stick-" and he feels, ridiculously, like he might choke up at the thought of not being able to play hockey because of something stupid like not having pads. 

"Sid will find some for you," Sasha says dismissively. "He's crazy, but he's also some big-shot lawyer and has a billion dollars and loves nothing but hockey so don't worry." 

Semyon doesn't really know how he feels about trusting a crazy guy named Sid that he's never met to find him hockey equipment, but now that he has a chance to play, he can't say no, so he nods and lets Sasha put his number into his phone. 

He texts Sasha later that night, after he's done practicing. _hello, it's Semyon from the rink earlier._ He's not really sure what else to say- he wants to ask when he can start playing, where he needs to be, when is the next game, but he doesn't want to seem overeager, so he doesn't add anything. 

Sasha texts him back instantly asking for his email address, so Semyon sends it to him. A few minutes later, his inbox has five new messages- apparently Sasha's added him to a hockey email list. Sid, the guy Sasha had mentioned earlier, sent the first one asking for people to fill out liability forms before showing up. Semyon downloads the attachments and makes a mental note to print them in the morning. The other four are from other players, Semyon guesses. There are two that are just pictures of some guy with a giant cut on his forehead and no front teeth. 

Semyon makes a new folder in his Gmail, labels it 'HOCKEY', and goes to bed. 

 

Semyon has a competition in three months and has a large stack of repertoire to learn as well as the Rachmaninoff, so he prints out the liability forms for the hockey league and leaves them on his desk for a few days, trying to focus on the heavy lifting of learning his pieces. It's the part of practicing he hates the most, learning the notes and sitting on the piano bench clapping rhythms to himself as he warbles along, trying to figure out how everything fits together. It's tiring the way doing sprints after a scrimmage is tiring, but eventually, it will pay off. 

He doesn't let himself fill out the forms until after his next lesson, when his teacher seems pleased with his progress. When Semyon gets home, he grabs a pen and heads for his desk. 

He's in the middle of writing out his emergency contact info (his piano teacher, since his parents are still in Russia) when his phone buzzes with a text from Sasha. 

_r u coming this weekend? told the guys about you, don't stand us up and make me look bad_

Semyon finishes writing his teacher's phone number before he answers. _I'll be there- can I get a ride with you maybe?_ He feels awkward about asking, but he doesn't have a car or a license so he doesn't really have a choice. (He's been trying to bug his manager about learning how to drive, but he doesn't have a social security number and he's still on a student visa, so it's mostly a moot point.) 

_sure, what's ur address_ , Sasha texts back, so Semyon sends it to him and then sets an early alarm so he can get up to practice before they leave. 

 

The pond is a little less than an hour away. Semyon is still in his practicing-headspace, where words make less sense than chords, for most of the ride. He would feel worse about not being good company, except that Sasha seems mostly asleep. He does keep up a running commentary about how everyone around them is a shitty driver, though, so Semyon tries to listen to him and by the time Sasha parks the car, they're both more or less awake and ready to go. 

"Where are we?" Semyon asks as they get out of the car. 

"Friend of Gretzky's, I don't know," Sasha says. Semyon frowns a little, wondering if he should be concerned that he doesn't actually know where he is, but Sasha doesn't seem worried at all and he can hear people talking and laughing nearby, so they start walking. "Let's find Sid and get you suited up." 

"Okay," Semyon says. They walk past a clump of trees and there's a small-ish, man-made pond stretched out before them. A few guys are already skating around, chirping each other and laughing. Semyon can see the blue tarp flapping around the edges of the pond. 

"Sid!" Sasha shouts, and one of the guys skates towards them. He hops off of the ice and looks distinctly more awkward walking than he does skating. He smiles at Semyon. 

"Is this the goalie you said you'd bring?" He asks Sasha.

"Yep," Sasha says. "Semyon, Sid, Sid, Semyon." 

"I have the forms," Semyon says, pulling them out of his back pocket and smoothing out the crease. "Everything should be there." 

"The forms? Oh- Great, thank you!" Sid enthuses. "You're the first one to actually give them to me, that's great, one less legal mess I have to worry about." 

"I give you forms, you give me pads and goalie stick?" Semyon offers, and he shoves the papers into Sid's hand. 

Sid laughs. It's a startling sound, and Semyon catches Sasha making a face at it and tries not to grin. "Deal," Sid says. "Follow me." 

There's a shed near the ice. Sid opens the door and roots around for a few minutes before emerging with a set of dusty pads. "They're kind of old," he apologizes, "but they'll do the trick. Gloves are up there-" he points at a shelf, and Semyon snags the pair of gloves that are there. "Hang on, give me a sec, I know there's a stick here somewhere." There's a barrel in the corner full of them, and it doesn't take Sid long to find a goalie stick. "There you go!" 

"Thank you," Semyon says, and Sid beams at him. "Can I- should pay you, yes? How much?" 

Sid waves him off. "Don't worry about it," he says. "Nobody's using them anyways, it's better now that they aren't wasting space." 

"Okay," Semyon says, and they head back out to the pond. 

Semyon sits down next to another goalie and starts putting on his pads. "Can I borrow tape? For socks?" He asks, and the other goalie tosses it to him, smiling. 

"You're Ovie's new kid, right?" Semyon nods. "I'm Flower, don't listen to whatever Ovie told you, he's a fuckface." 

"Okay?" Semyon says, and tosses the tape back to Flower. 

 

They all put their sticks in a pile and the last two drawn are the officials. Semyon and Flower are the only two goalies, so they are exempt. Flower chirps the two guys who get stuck having to ref, and Semyon laughs along with everyone else, wondering if maybe in a few months he'll know these guys well enough to join in, if they'll let him keep playing with them. 

It's been a few years since Semyon has put on goalie pads and skated around his goal area. He practices going down before the puck drops, mimicking saves, trying to get his body to remember what it needs to do. He feels rusty, like he's trying to play a Chopin étude for the first time a year without properly warming up. But it also feels totally natural, gliding back and forth, seeing his breath as he starts to pant and work up a sweat. 

Some of the guys are really good. Sid – Semyon gets momentarily distracted watching Sid weave through D-men before he remembers that Sid's not on his team. Sasha's good, too, in a more showboating kind of way. He scores in the first scrimmage and crows in delight, waving his stick around. Semyon laughs, glad they're on the same team. 

He saves the first shot Sid takes. It's from an off angle but it's still a good shot, hard like Sid's trying to put the puck straight through the net. Semyon catches it on his left leg and clears it out behind him and Sid looks frustrated with himself but pleased at the same time. 

"Glad you're as good as Ovie said," he tells Semyon as he skates past. Semyon gives himself a second to smile before he lets it drop from his face, goes back into game mode. 

Sid scores on the next shot he takes, though. It's a beautiful goal, Semyon recognizes – a nice pass inside from one of the four guys with the same last name, and Sid looks like he's shooting to Semyon's left again, sells it just enough that when he flicks his wrist, Semyon moves on instinct, but that shot never comes, and Semyon looks down, confused, and the puck is in the back of the net to his right. He hits the goalpost with his stick, hard, and curses under his breath in Russian. 

Even so, he has fun. He kind of can't believe he's there, on some guy named Gretsky's friend's pond, with a bunch of guys he's never met, playing hockey again. He'd thought when he left Russia he wouldn't be able to play hockey again. 

He's determined to keep coming back, wants to keep playing with these guys, to get to know their names and nicknames and get in on the chirping and have this a few times a week, so he buckles down and focuses and doesn't let another goal in for the rest of the first game. 

"Hey, nice job out there," Sid says when they finish. He's still skating, and Semyon is reluctant to take off his skates too, but Sasha's already off the ice and Semyon doesn't want to overstay his welcome. 

"Thanks," Semyon says. "Who's place is this?" 

"Friend of Gretzky," Sid says, and his face closes off a little and Semyon wishes he hadn't said anything. 

"Who's that?" 

"He used to play," Sid shrugs. "Quit after last year, said he was getting too old. We're trying to find a new place to play, but this is all we've got for now." 

"It's great," Semyon says, offering a small smile. "Can I come back? Play again?" 

"Of course!" Sid says. Tension Semyon hadn't realized he was carrying leaves his shoulders and he feels happier than he has all week. 

"Really?" He asks, and Sid beams at him. 

"Yeah, we play twice a week and Saturdays. Ovie added you to the listserv right?" Semyon nods. "Great. Come when you can, no pressure if you're busy or anything." 

"Thank you," Semyon says, and the whole drive home there's a new bubble of happiness trapped in his chest. 

 

He settles into a new routine. He practices in the mornings, two hours extra on hockey days, and goes to his lessons twice a week in the afternoons. Sasha drives him to the pond on hockey days, and he keeps the old goalie pads in the shed so he doesn't have to cart them back and forth in Sasha's car. He talks to his manager and his parents about getting a green card, and they tell him, win the competition first. 

"If you win the competition, you'll have enough money to stay," his mother tells him. "And you'll have five concerts already booked for next season and it'll help you get a recording contract, Senya."

Semyon knows she's right, so they make the deal. Win the competition, get a green card. "Why do you want one so badly?" His mother asks. 

He doesn't tell her that it's starting to feel more and more like home, especially now that he has hockey again. Russia is home and it always will be, and Semyon doesn't want to break his mother's heart. He also doesn't tell her that a green card means a drivers license, which means he can drive himself to hockey. "I like it here," he tells her. "I like my teachers. I like the concert halls. There are more opportunities here than in Moscow." 

"Okay, Senya," she says. "We want you to be happy." 

"I am happy," Semyon says, thinking of Rachmaninoff and power plays at the same time, not sure which one floated into his head first. 

 

"You're playing well," his teacher tells him. "Much better, now. You're working harder. What changed?" 

Semyon shrugs. It's not that he's ashamed of hockey, so he isn't sure why he hasn't told his teacher. It just hasn't come up in the two months that he's been playing, and now it seems like it's too late. After the competition, he figures, when he gets a little breathing room, he'll bring it up. 

"Are you practicing more?" His teacher presses. 

"I guess," Semyon says. It's true, he is practicing a few extra hours on hockey days. His parents' rule has become habit now. 

"You seem happier," his teacher says. "Your playing is much easier, much more natural. Keep doing what you're doing." 

"Okay," Semyon says, nodding, because that basically means permission to play hockey, and he couldn't ask for more than that. 

 

"Hey, I won't be here next week," he tells Sasha when he gets in the car to go to hockey a month later. 

"Why, you finally getting a license, driving yourself?" Sasha teases. 

Semyon laughs. "Nope," he says. "Still no green card. I have a piano competition." 

"Piano, right," Sasha says. "Your priorities are in the wrong place." 

Semyon stops himself from frowning, but it's a near thing. "I have to go to Moscow for it," he says. "It's kind of a big deal, I guess." 

"Okay," Sasha says easily. "I guess we can play a few games without a goalie. We'll put a trash can between the pipes and it'll still be better than Flower." 

 

Semyon walks onstage for the Tchaikovsky Competition and it feels like gliding around the pond with Sasha and Sid and Flower and the Staals. He's wearing a tailcoat and he bows deeply, thanking the audience. He sits, and lets his hands hover above the keys for a few seconds and it's like the empty seconds between lining up and the puck dropping. His stomach buzzes in anticipation, and then he begins. 

Rachmaninoff is like hockey, his teacher was right. It's violent and painfully beautiful and it leaves him and the audience both breathless, wanting more and more until there isn't anything left. Semyon sweats on stage, can feel the hair at the nape of his neck getting damp, but his fingers are as sure as they ever are. 

It's like the best moments in hockey, when he makes a reaction save without even having time to blink. The music is already there, somewhere, and all Semyon has to do is breathe and it flows without thinking. 

It feels great, and Semyon wants to stay like this forever, wants to have both forever. 

 

His parents congratulate him after he plays, and they go out to dinner at a nice restaurant and when Semyon flies back to the States, it's as the youngest ever winner of the competition. He celebrates his twenty-first birthday with Sasha and Ilya and the next day, he goes online and downloads all the forms he needs to get a green card. He spends the afternoon on the phone with the Russian Embassy and when he goes to bed, he's happier than he's ever felt. 

Three weeks later, he breaks his finger. 

 

It's the thumb of his left hand. Sasha's shot catches it hard, and it's a strange angle for a shot and it hits Semyon on the side of his hand, where there isn't as much padding. He knows instantly that something's wrong and he takes both gloves off to inspect. Sasha circles around him, chirping because the shot had gone in after hitting him, and Semyon drops his stick, too, takes off his helmet. 

"What the fuck," he snaps at Sasha. "Why would you hit me in the hand, fucker?" He's never yelled at any of the guys like this. He's never been _mad_ like this. He lunges at Sasha with his right hand and it's his weak hand so it's a shitty punch, but it still lands squarely on Sasha's jaw and it feels good. 

Sasha wrestles him down pretty quickly. Semyon's not a good fighter. He never has the chance to throw his gloves down; his teammates always swarm around him before anything happens. Sasha is a much better fighter, and Semyon's hand is throbbing already, so he doesn't struggle too much when Sid pulls him away from Sasha. 

"You think I aimed at your precious piano hands on purpose? As if I care that much about the fucking piano," Sasha snaps, being pulled backwards by Eric Staal. 

Semyon can't move his thumb. "Biz will take a look at it," Sid tells him, and they skate over to the side of the pond and step off of the ice. 

BizNasty does take a look at it. He snaps on latex gloves even though there's no blood and he inspects Semyon's thumb, tries to bend it backwards and forwards. Semyon yelps a little for the pain, and BizNasty gets him a pack of frozen peas. 

"Ice it for now, and I'll tape you up so you don't fuck it up more overnight," he says. "Looks broken to me, so you should probably get x-rays." 

Semyon's chest feels tight and he nods mutely. "I'll call and get you in tomorrow at my office if you want," BizNasty offers, and Semyon nods again. 

"Gotta take care of the moneymakers," Flower jokes from the doorway, and Semyon would laugh except that it's not a joke for him. 

 

Sid offers to drive him home, and Semyon accepts, because he can't really picture being in an enclosed space with Sasha for an hour going well. Sasha's his friend and they'll be fine later, Semyon thinks, but he just doesn't want to deal with it right now. 

"Thanks," he says when Sid offers him a Gatorade and starts the car. "I'm good, though." 

"Okay," Sid says, and they drive back, mostly quiet. Eventually, Sid asks, "Why'd you get so mad? I know it hurts but getting hit happens. Part of the game and everything." 

"I know," Semyon says, because he's does, he's not an idiot. "But is my hand, and I can't- I play piano, you know? So I need my hands. Both of them. And thumbs. Sasha knows that."

"Well, Ovie's also an insensitive dick," Sid offers, because he and Sasha have never really been friends. Semyon grins despite himself. "I didn't know you played piano though, Varly. That's cool." 

"It's my job," Semyon says, trying not to sound bitter. "I don't now what I do, now." 

"You must be pretty good," Sid says. "If it's your job and all." 

Semyon shrugs. "I've played for very long time." 

"How long is very long, you're only twenty?" 

"Twenty-one, but I got serious about it when I was eight," Semyon tells him, and Sid whistles under his breath. 

"Nice," he says. "Well, Biz got you an appointment for tomorrow, right? So you'll figure it out." 

"I won't be able to play hockey, too," Semyon reminds him, and when he glances at Sid, sitting in the drivers seat with his hands precisely at ten-and-two, Sid looks pained for him. "Until it heals. At least." 

"I'm sorry," Sid says. Semyon knows Sid's sorry about him not being able to play hockey more than anything. He's not sure if he's more upset about not being able to play hockey or piano. 

 

He gets x-rays the next morning and BizNasty confirms that his thumb is broken and sets him up with a cast. 

He calls his teacher when he gets home. 

"Hello," he says, awkward. "It's Semyon." 

"How are you?" His teacher asks, and Semyon can barely get the words out past the lump in his throat. 

"I, um. I broke the left thumb," he says. His voice is quieter than usual. His teacher is silent for a long minute. 

"How?" 

Semyon grinds his teeth together. "Playing hockey, I was hit." 

"Playing hockey?" Semyon closes his eyes and he can see his teacher's forehead wrinkles deepen. "When did you play hockey?" 

"I've been playing," Semyon says, figuring it's better to just come clean. "For, uh. Few months, since before the competition." 

Semyon's teacher sounds disappointed, even over the phone. "I hope you signed some insurance forms or something, because you're going to miss at least one concert. We will do- come to your lesson Friday and we will do right hand technique. How long did the doctors say?" 

"At least six weeks," Semyon says, miserable, and his teacher must hear it in his voice because he softens a little. 

"Maybe it would be good for you to go home for a while, then," he offers. "Take a break, be with your family." 

Semyon nods into the phone, then realizes his teacher can't see him, and says, "Okay." 

 

He goes to Russia a week later and stays at his parents' house for two weeks. He sleeps in his old twin bed and he does his right hand technique exercises on the old upright piano. 

"When did you start playing hockey again?" His mother asks him. They're in the kitchen after dinner. Semyon is drying dishes with his right hand. 

"A few months ago," he says. "One of my friends told me about a league." 

"A league?" 

"Yeah, like how it was when I was a kid," Semyon explains. "It's just a few times a week, just playing around. It's nothing serious." 

"But you broke your thumb playing," his mother presses gently, handing him a plate. 

"It was a bad shot, it was an accident," Semyon says. He feels a little desperate, like he can't breathe deeply enough to get oxygen to his brain. 

"Senya, I know hockey makes you happy," his mother says, and he can tell that she's trying to be gentle. Somehow it hurts more than if she'd yelled. "But piano makes you happy too, right?" 

"Yes," he answers, because it does, it really does, they're just _different_. 

"And piano is your career, your life," she continues. "I don't want to make you unhappy, Senya, but I want you to really think about if playing hockey is a smart idea when you go back. What if you get hurt again? What if you can never play piano again?" 

Semyon frowns. "There's only one other goalie," he tries. "I have to play, I don't want to let my friends down." 

"Your friends will understand, Senya," his mother says. Semyon barely stops himself from shaking his head, thinking of Sid and how Sid leaves work early every hockey day, of Sasha and how Sasha uses half of his paycheck every month to help with the pond upkeep and making sure everyone has equipment. They won't understand, because hockey is everything to them, they don't have anything like piano that gives them the same rush. 

 

He does think about what his mother said, though. He thinks about it for the whole flight back to the States. He thinks, he went without playing hockey before, while he was at conservatory in Moscow. 

He can't bring himself to tell the guys in person so he texts Sasha. _hello, I won't be coming to hockey anymore. talked to my manager, it's too much liability for my hands._ Sasha texts him back a row of frowny faces and _fuck ur manager_. Semyon asks him, _tell the guys for me please?_ because it somehow seems wrong to break the news over email. _fine, fucker_ , Sasha texts back, and Semyon can't tell if he's joking or serious so he doesn't reply. 

 

The weeks come and go and Semyon gets his cast off and has a brace instead. He doesn't touch his skates, not even to go to the community rink, because he thinks he might miss it too much, he might change his mind. He applies for a green card and gets it, and a few weeks later, he gets his brace off, too. 

"Rehab your hand for a few more weeks," his teacher tells him. "Practice Bach, scales, go back to the basics. Get used to playing again. Then I think you will play Mussorsky, for your next recital." 

He gets the occasional text from one of the hockey guys. Most of them are from Sasha, who literally did put a trash can in the goal one night, apparently. He sends a picture of it to Semyon with the caption _better than u AND flower, stopped 2 of sid's shots_. Semyon laughs but his chest feels tight so he deletes it and doesn't reply. Flower texts him too, sometimes, pictures of his new goalie masks. _toews fought ovie tonight, did better than you haha_ , Flower says one night, and Semyon remember the night he broke his thumb and gets a headache. He texts Flower back anyway, _it would be sad if he didn't do better than me_. 

 

It takes another two months for Semyon to start talking to Sasha again. He's not sure if Sasha wants to still be friends, for one thing. They were always friends because of hockey, and since Semyon isn't playing anymore, he just- doesn't know. But when Sasha texts him, _get lunch with me_ , Semyon knows better than to fuck it up. _Okay, where?_ , he texts back, and they make plans to meet the next day.

Semyon sits down at the piano that night and practices for four hours. He loses track of time, lost in Mussorsky's sound world. He forgets how tired he is and that he's not practicing as a bribe to play hockey. He's been playing like shit since he got his cast off and he's sick of it. 

The thing is that Semyon doesn't love hockey more than piano. He does wonder, what if there had been a professional hockey league? What if he did that for a living and played piano on the side, for fun, because he loved it? And the realization that he comes to is that it wouldn't matter, because he would still work hard at piano. He would still love to play, and he would still want to sound good, better than anyone else. That wouldn't change just because there was professional hockey. 

So Semyon practices until he sounds better than anyone else, because he wants to and because he can, and when he goes to bed, he dreams that he's skating but he's not on a pond or a rink, the roads are just ice and he skates. He's not going particularly fast, but fast enough that the breeze he creates blows his hair back, and he's not going anywhere, he's just – going. There's music playing around him, but it keeps changing- it's Beethoven, at one point, he thinks. He's happy, and he skates and skates until he wakes up and gets dressed to meet Sasha. 

 

"Hi," Semyon says cautiously, sitting down across from Sasha, who's already glancing through the menu. 

"Hey, fucker!" Sasha says. He closes the menu and grins, showing off his missing tooth so Semyon knows he's joking. Semyon relaxes a little, smiles back. "Long time no see, what gives?" 

Semyon shrugs. "No hockey, so I guess I just haven't seen anyone in a while." 

"You're an idiot," Sasha tells him, shaking his head fondly. "You think just because I don't have to haul your ass back and forth to hockey anymore I don't want to see you? I mean- okay, I did need a break from you, because driving you around was very hard work and your presence exhausts me-" he breaks off, laughing, and Semyon laughs with him. 

"Alright," he says when they both catch their breath. "Okay." 

"Okay what?" Sasha asks. 

"Okay, I suck," Semyon answers, trying to keep his face very serious. 

"Maybe you do have a brain in there after all!" Sasha crows, and Semyon gives him the finger and knows he's going to be okay. 

 

Semyon plays Mussorsky in his recital and gets an offer for a recording contract a week later. He signs to Sony Classical and flies to LA for a month to make a CD of Rachmaninoff, _Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini_. 

There's no hockey in LA – people hardly seem to recognize it as a real sport, which makes sense, Semyon supposes, because there's no way it would ever get cold enough to be able to skate. 

Semyon likes LA well enough, but he's glad when he finishes recording and flies back home. It's spring, but he feels more comfortable knowing that eventually, there will be snow and ice and hockey, even if Semyon isn't playing. 

 

"You will play the Van Cliburn Competition this year," Semyon's teacher tells him. 

Semyon decides he wants to drive to Texas for the competition. He texts Sasha. _Teach me how to drive?_

Driving is something he'd always wanted in conjunction with hockey, but he spends a long time thinking about it and decides that just because everything he needs (the grocery store, the concert hall, his teacher's studio) is within walking distance of his apartment doesn't mean he shouldn't learn how to drive. 

Sasha texts him back _!!!!! YES_ , so Semyon starts looking up used car websites. 

 

They almost die the first time Semyon makes a left turn, and he never really learns how to parallel park, but he does actually get a license, thanks to Sasha. The first thing they do after he passes his test is drive to the used car dealership where Whitney works. 

"Hey, the fuck are you doing here?" Whits asks when he sees them walk in. "Haven't seen you in ages, Varly!" 

"He finally learned to drive," Sasha tells Whits, and Whits holds his hand up for a fistbump. Semyon obliges. "So now he needs a car 'cause no way he borrowing mine." 

Semyon isn't sure that he and Whits were ever close enough to chirp each other off the ice, but he shrugs anyway and says, "Also we figured it was about time you sold first car, you work here how long now?" 

Whits looks surprised and then delighted, and Semyon leaves the lot in a tan sedan that really isn't anything special, but he feels pretty great anyway. 

 

Semyon drives to Texas by himself. Sasha makes him a mixed CD of terrible pop music and Semyon stops listening to it after the first two songs. Sometimes he listens to the Beethoven he's going to play; sometimes he just rolls down the window and listens to the wind. 

He passes the first round of the competition with ease and when he steps on stage for the finals, it's different than a year ago in Moscow, because his parents aren't there, but it's also the same, stepping on stage in his tailcoat and dress shoes and taking a deep bow. He sits quietly at the piano bench for a moment and lets his hands rest on his thighs. He thinks of the first time he went to play pond hockey with Sasha, how he hadn't played in years but it didn't matter because hockey was still there, still something he could do. 

When he starts playing, it's easy, like reaching out and feeling the music swell up inside of him until it can't stay in anymore, it has to be shared. It soars and swoops, like gliding around the ice, and when he finishes his last runs and the orchestra takes over for the last chords, he smiles so big he almost laughs. 

 

When Semyon comes home as the winner of the Van Cliburn Competition, he starts skating again. He goes the community rink and laces up and takes a few laps but never stays more than a half an hour before heading home. 

Sasha catches him at the rink a few times, but he never says anything, and Semyon is grateful. 

 

When Semyon is twenty-four, he decides he wants to start playing hockey again. He calls his teacher first, and then his parents. 

"What if you get hurt again?" His teacher asks him. 

Semyon shrugs a little. "Then I get hurt again. And then I get better again, and I keep playing." 

His teacher frowns, but when Semyon comes for his lesson a week later, there are a pair of goalie gloves sitting on the coffee table. 

 

His mother cries when he Skypes her. "Senya, we talked about this," she says. 

"I know," he says. "And I could not play- I haven't been playing. And that's okay, but the thing is that I really want to. And I can, so I'm going to. It's fun, and it makes me happy." 

"It always has made you happy," she says. 

"So does piano," Semyon tells her. "So now I can do two things that make me happy, please smile." 

She does, and Semyon thinks, it's going to work out. 

 

Semyon gets a ride with Sasha. 

There's a new pond. It's a little further away, and it's on Marc Staal's farm. "Now we aren't invaders," Sasha laughs when he tells Semyon about it. "Sid is less awkward about it." 

Some of the guys from two years ago are there- Semyon sees Flower when he gets out of the car and they hug briefly while Flower tries to show him his new goalie mask. 

"Your extra shit should be over there," Sasha tells Semyon, pointing to the edge of the pond where a pile of extra gear is lying. 

Getting on the ice again feels good. Semyon and Flower warm each other up and Semyon laughs at Flower's new mask, tells him he'll have to get Véro to paint one for Semyon, too. Flower agrees, and they shoot the shit with Lundqvist for a while until it's time to pick teams. When they line up for the first game, Semyon feels the familiar fluttering in his stomach and the cold air on the back of his neck and he's happier than he's been since he won the Van Cliburn Competition. 

Sid scores on him in the second game. It's a fast, pretty shot- glove side, half a dozen paces out, and it's buried in the net by the time Semyon gets his hand up. Semyon looks over his shoulder and then back at his hand and laughs- at himself, for being slow, at Sid, for being good, and also just because he's happy to be there. 

"It's good to be back, isn't it?" Lundqvist shouts at him from the bench. 

"Really fucking good," Semyon yells back, and Sid smiles at him, looking a little confused but also like he understands. 

"What brought you back?" Sid asks him when they're packing up their stuff. 

Semyon shrugs. "I missed it," he says. 

"What about piano?" Semyon raises his eyebrows. "Flower and I Googled you," Sid admits, and Semyon snorts. 

"I'm still playing piano," he says. He doesn't have to explain more to Sid, because Sid knows what it's like to love hockey. 

Sasha drives him home. "Pick me up next time?" Semyon asks as he gets out of the car. 

"Twist my arm about it, why don't you," Sasha snarks, but he nods. After Semyon shuts the door and starts to walk to his building, Sasha sticks his head out the window and yells, "Good to have you back!" 

Semyon waves at him and laughs and thinks, it's better to be back. 

 

He's sore when he wakes up, mostly in his thighs and his ass. It's a good kind of sore, though, and he stretches out in the shower and takes his time walking down the stairs. Eventually it won't make him sore anymore, because his body will adjust into it again, and that's a good thought.

 

His manager tells him he should play in a charity concert in two weeks. Semyon says yes, because he likes playing, and it's for a good cause, and then it occurs to him to text Sid. 

_Hello, it's Varly. Is it ok to use the mailing list to invite everyone to my piano concert or is just for hockey?_

Sid says yes, so Semyon turns on his computer and writes an email.

> From: varlamov.semyon@sonyclassical.com  
>  To: listserv: hockey
> 
> Hi everyone,
> 
> I have a charity piano concert a week from Friday. It was put together last minute and it's for a really good cause so I would like it very much if you could buy tickets and come. Also you all need culture in your lives so I will be happy to provide that. It will be at Symphony Hall at 8pm and you need to dress nicely (no tuxedo shirts!) so if you are as tall as me and you need a suit I have extras. 
> 
> Thank you, see you all soon!  
>  -Varly

"Why'd you invite a bunch of hockey players to a piano concert?" Sasha asks as they drive to the pond.

Semyon shrugs. "Hockey and piano aren't that different," he says. Sasha snorts. "No, really!" 

Somehow, he wants them to understand. He wants them to see why he stopped playing hockey after he broke his thumb- wants them to know that it wasn't because he didn't like hockey, or because he liked hockey less. He wants them to see that it really isn't different. He figures, if his piano teacher will buy him a pair of hockey gloves, his hockey friends should come hear him play. 

He thinks Sasha gets it, because his eyebrow twitches, and he doesn't ask about again. 

 

Semyon gives Sid a block of seats for the team in the first balcony. They'll be able to see him from there, and the hall has great acoustics, so they'll be able to hear well enough. He can pick them out of the crowd when he walks on stage, mostly because Max has a pair of crutches propped up against his seat, and they all look kind of out of place. Sasha wolf-whistles when Semyon takes his bow. 

Everyone quiets down when Semyon sits down and he lets his hands hover for a second, reaches out and grabs the music and lets it fill him up before he launches himself into it, and then he takes off. By the time he finishes, he knows that everyone in the audience is just as breathless as he is. 

 

Most of the guys have taken off by the time Semyon finishes with the receiving line and gets out of his dressing room. It's okay, because he checks his phone and has at least one text from each of them, mostly variants on _good job!!!_ and _holy shit you never said you were GOOD at piano_. 

Sasha's doesn't though- his says just _want a ride to hockey tmrrw_ , and Semyon smiles, because Sasha gets it. 

_yeah, thank you_ , he texts back. When he gets home, he takes off his tuxedo and sets his alarm for early, so he can play for a few hours before going to hockey. He falls asleep quickly and dreams about Rachmaninoff and shoot-outs, and gliding around the ice in a tuxedo.


End file.
